a fork in the road.
Such simple things, choices. The flavor of ice-cream, the route to the concert; the red shirt, or the blue... so many, so often; choices. So much, times; the choice is made even before the consideration is well formed. Now, or later; before, or after, the mail... yet even with familiarity, the ability to choose is not contempt.
And what looms, is anticipation. To prepare for the final exam, to plot the course through the last of the dangerous reefs; to hold to an ideal of perception and see it come to fruition, to become...
Not I. Know that sometimes, the monument of destiny is the distraction to the focus of will; and in hindsight, vanilla marks the future of evolution.
Once, I was an artist; drawing attractive women, just what I did. On commission, on request, or just because I could; to make the time go by. Not so much women as subjects, medium to canvas, moment to memory; that choosing to take the likeness of a beauty in an idle moment, did not require choice.
Until I chose to draw Gwyneth Paltrow.
And all for a smile; the one drawing her gave unto me - 5/15 - the day of my creation... ten years gone. Because I kept re/creating, a multitude of portraiture, of grin; and where I sit now. looking back.
Thousands; upon thousands of hours, of the life I did not know I was living, recorded in colored pencil, and freely given to whomever was there to receive. In drawing her, I fell in love with her; in the love of drawing her, and expression of giving. For I am so very wealthy in this self-contained trade, love, and joyous expression; that I have little sense of materialism, so little that the material I do acquire is oft later expressed to one whose need is more than mine.
Which is what I have become - religious - where religion was never an option. Through circumstance both strange and surreal, the question of what is Gwyneth Paltrow to an unknown artist she has never met, may yet be an answer considered forever undefined. Perhaps in can be expressed, the word of god; but not so much, nor so well, if history be the judge. Leaving a nobody to know, if any should come to wonder; that in all the words of god is not so much a meaning...
as a measure.